


foolish, my love

by matchamozza



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, College, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Unrequited Crush, other tags in author's note
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:29:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27678794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/matchamozza/pseuds/matchamozza
Summary: Kiyoomi doesn’t hold it against them because his feelings are past, and because they can’t help what they didn’t feel.(He can't help what he feels, no matter how hard he tries.)
Relationships: Miya Osamu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 6
Kudos: 65





	foolish, my love

**Author's Note:**

> Hi!! So the other ships are ushisaku, sakuroo, and sakuatsu— all unrequited. I just thought I'd list them in here because I don't think they go in-depth enough to warrant me clogging up those ship tags! 
> 
> This was originally going to be a twt fic, but I went a lil crazy and decided to write it into a full-fledged fic instead. Hope you enjoy! :)
> 
> Thank you to Rachel for beta reading <3

Consider, Sakusa Kiyoomi. 

Sakusa Kiyoomi, who wears his heart anywhere but his sleeve. He tucks it away deep in his chest and cages it in with his ribs.

He feels so much, so deeply— he overflows with emotion, really, but only behind closed doors. He'd never kid himself into thinking he could ever show a fraction of what he really feels without embarrassing himself.

Because it’s embarrassing, isn't it? The way his thoughts dribble poetics about fluorescent lights shining in someone's eyes as they run through a gym, or about another person's laugh being his favorite song.

He worries that his feelings are so strong that they must show plainly on his face if he shows an ounce of it, so he shuts any and all expression of it down. That way, the only person overwhelmed is him.

Only, this backfires. His youth is riddled with others’ assumptions on his character, on his heart.

First and foremost, it seems a lot of people think he doesn't have one.

_Cold and impassive. Impenetrable. Unaffected. Unfeeling. Dispassionate._

All words he's heard muttered behind his back, because others think he doesn't care enough to listen. But he does.

_That's not it,_ he wants to say, _I'm a person. I feel, too. I just don't show it, but I feel. I feel, I feel, I feel so much that it hurts and I hate it._

But he doesn't, because that could open him up to ridicule and pain.

He first learns heartbreak with Ushijima Wakatoshi.

At the end of their third summer camp together, on the cusp of becoming highschoolers, he confesses. It's straightforward and plain, because that's the only way Kiyoomi can control the flood.

"I like you. I want to be with you."

Wakatoshi nods and for a second, Kiyoomi feels like they might be acting too maturely for their age, but that's part of why he likes him.

"Okay. Let's try this."

That should have been his clue. The fact that Wakatoshi didn't say he returned any affection.

He first learns heartbreak when a text makes its way through the wires from Miyagi to Tokyo at 8:42pm three months later, two months into his first year at highschool.

_'I don't think our feelings for each other are very strong. It might be a good idea to end this.'_

Kiyoomi's heart is stamped into the floor, but he shoves the flattened remnants under his bed and answers the text with a simple, _‘Alright.’_

•••

The next summer, he meets Kuroo Tetsurou.

Kuroo is nothing like Wakatoshi, but Kiyoomi can feel himself falling too hard, too fast.

They're at the edges of each other's orbit at every practice game, every hangout Motoya drags him to where they meet the other first and second years from Nekoma and Fukurodani.

He sits on a park bench and watches Kuroo and Bokuto wrestle around in the grass. They're covered in dust and grass stains, but there's something charming about it. 

And, like teenage boys do, they stay in the park till the sun sets and start talking about crushes under the shield of the night sky.

"Do you like anyone, Kiyoomi-kun?"

"Me?"

Motoya is staring straight at him, all-seeing, all-knowing. Kiyoomi swallows and pointedly doesn't look at Kuroo. Or anyone.

"Absolutely not."

Motoya doesn't believe him and turns the line of questioning to Kuroo, much to Kiyoomi's dismay.

"What's your type, Kuroo? Upbeat? Or serious like Kiyoomi-kun?"

Thankfully, the only person that has connected any dots in the group seems to be Akaashi, who looks between them and (notably) stays silent. He seems to be a sensible person.

Kiyoomi doesn't know if he could survive Bokuto or Kuroo picking up on the not-so-subtle hint Motoya's dropped.

"Oh, no way! I mean, serious is okay, but Sakkun's kinda like a robot?"

It's a joke, it's not meant to be taken to heart.

Bokuto is doing the robot and making beeping sounds and Kuroo is laughing at the impression but Kiyoomi's metal heart shreds into shrapnel, embedding into his lungs and choking him up.

He sits silently, eyes only slightly wide, mouth clamped shut out of fear that spare parts of a broken machine will spill out.

Kuroo sniffs out _something_ , because then he's waving his hands frantically and backtracking.

"I mean, being stoic is super cool! And I love robot movies! It just..."

It still does not change the fact that Kuroo sees him as a robot.

“Yeah, yeah. Serious is okay.”

Kiyoomi thinks it might mean something, that it wouldn’t hurt to get his hopes up, but one look up and he follows Kuroo’s eyeline to where Kozume sits six feet away. Playing his game. Stoic and uninterested.

And Kuroo seems _very_ interested.

Kiyoomi shrugs it off as if it’s easy and clicks his tongue, they move on from the conversation, and he tries to ignore the apologetic stare from Motoya digging into the side of his head.

Shredded metal creaks and clangs from his chest to his ears as everyone else laughs on.

•••

Half a year passes, and he meets the train wreck that is Miya Atsumu.

When Atsumu laughs too loud, and when he proclaims arrogantly that any set he gives should score a point, and when he sputters and trips and looks around to see if anyone noticed only to huff and flip his bangs—

Kiyoomi starts wondering if his taste in men is deteriorating, especially considering his feelings don't die with how much Atsumu can't shut up about one of his seniors.

Every meal, every practice they share, Atsumu talks about how great of a hitter _Aran-kun_ is.

His eyes sparkle when he talks about how cool he is, about when he and Osamu first met him. It's obvious to everyone in the room that what Atsumu feels is more than admiration, and Kiyoomi thinks it's almost comical how opposite they are.

Still, his own feelings don't die.

They probably will only see each other at Nationals, so Kiyoomi thinks he has nothing to lose when they walk out of the facility and he sees Atsumu waiting alone at the bus stop.

“Go on without me, I’ll catch up with you.”

Catching up with Motoya means that Kiyoomi already knows he’s not going to take more than a few minutes, that what he’s going for will end before it’s started, but that’s just it. He needs to end it and stamp out whatever sprouting crush he has before it develops into anything more. It seems repeated rejection’s turned him into a masochist.

“I’ll be at the store down the block getting some snacks.”

Kiyoomi nods, but he’s already walking over to the bus stop. He stands just behind Atsumu’s shoulder, tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth since he hasn’t prepared as much as he would have liked. Thankfully, he doesn’t have to open the conversation because Atsumu glances just behind him and jumps ten feet into the air, dropping his bag.

It’s cute.

Kiyoomi hates that.

“Fuck!! Warn a guy, won’tcha? You’re like a damn poltergeist, I didn’t even know you were there.”

Atsumu turns back to his mp3 player, uninterested in further conversation, and that’s the first prick of heartbreak.

“Miya.”

His music is blaring through his headphones so loud that Kiyoomi can hear it so he repeats himself, louder.

“Miya, I have something I’d like to say to you.”

Atsumu’s brows are furrowed and his lips are lightly shaping the vowels of whatever song is playing, and Kiyoomi thinks it’s a shame that he’ll probably never have the privilege of hearing him sing badly along to whatever god-awful music he loves.

Kiyoomi taps a fingernail on one side of Atsumu’s headset, and it’s immediately yanked down. _“What?”_

“There’s something I want to discuss with you.”

Surprise flashes across Atsumu’s face, and his mouth forms a small circle. Kiyoomi thinks he almost wants to kiss it. “Oh- Why didn’tcha just say so?”

Kiyoomi scoffs and takes a step back, shoves his hands into his pockets to hide the way he curls his hands into fists and uncurls them again nervously. “I _tried_ , but you just- Nevermind, I’ll just get to the point.”

Atsumu looks like he’s steeling himself for an earful, or a lecture, or anything equally as dreadful, so it’s no shock when his eyes widen to saucers when Kiyoomi drops his bomb. 

“I like you, romantically. It’s unfortunate but I can’t seem to stop it, so I just needed to let you know.”

Pointed. Forward. Almost clinical.

That’s the safe way to confess. If he tells Atsumu that the way he stuffs his face with food until his cheeks puff out is endearing, that he’s thought of wiping away grains of rice that stick to his lips, that he’s hopelessly obsessed with how dedicated he is to the game they both love— If he tells Atsumu any of this, he’s giving him ammunition.

This might be the slowest heartbreak, because Miya Atsumu seems to have never taken a confession well in his life.

“Oh! Shit, I mean, you’re a good player. Your spikes have a _wicked_ spin, it’s crazy—”

_But I’m not like Aran-kun._

“I didn’t ask about your opinion on my skills,” Kiyoomi bites out through gritted teeth. “Just give me an answer, and I’ll leave.”

It’s the middle of winter and Kiyoomi can hear wind howling between Tokyo skyscrapers in the distance. It reaches them and blows their hair into their faces, and the cold bites his nose, and they both shiver. Atsumu’s teeth chattering fills the silence for a brief moment. 

“I-I know. Geez, you’re not bein’ cute right now.” Atsumu blows his bangs up, out of his eyes. Kiyoomi looks at the curb. Atsumu sighs. “Do you even like me? Sounds like you don’t. Had me convinced you hated me this whole week, from the way you’d stare daggers at me.”

_I couldn’t take my eyes off of you._

“Hardly even talked to me, almost felt like you were avoiding it!”

_I thought I would make things obvious, that you would be suffocated with my interest._

“Just doesn’t seem like you _really_ like me, you sure you don’t just like the way I play?”

_I like you. I said as much, isn’t that enough?_

Kiyoomi’s _had_ enough.

“Alright. I’ll be going. Enjoy the New Year, or don’t.” He turns on his heel and clings to the small spark of satisfaction in having the last word, even as his heart crumbles where Atsumu’s chipped away at it with an ice pick.

Rejection runs cold in the winter.

•••

Thankfully, Kiyoomi doesn’t have any more unfortunate confessions until he graduates. He still runs into Wakatoshi, and Kuroo, and Atsumu, but they all seem to have brushed things under the rug. It’s like nothing even happened, like it wasn’t that serious.

Like they thought it wasn’t that serious for him, either.

Kiyoomi doesn’t hold it against them because his feelings are past, and because they can’t help what they _didn’t_ feel. 

Atsumu vows to beat Kiyoomi in the professional leagues one day, Kiyoomi vows the same to Wakatoshi, and he and Kuroo have formed an unlikely friendship that follows them when Kiyoomi enrolls at Waseda University.

They share an apartment, because Kiyoomi doesn’t know another soul that didn’t go pro right after highschool and he’s confident that Kuroo has matured enough to respect his boundaries and let him clean as he likes.

They’re not the best of friends, but they’re comfortable roommates. It’s good enough for him. 

And yet, there seems to be another soul that didn’t go pro right after highschool.

Or rather, one that decided not to go pro _at all._

Kiyoomi meets Miya Osamu for the second, third, maybe tenth time in autumn of his first year at university.

Their eyes meet as soon as Osamu enters the lecture hall just minutes before their first class begins, when there’s only one seat open in the back row.

Right next to Kiyoomi.

His hair’s grown out considerably since they both graduated. It looks black from a distance, but Kiyoomi can make out an inch or two of silver clinging onto the ends as Osamu approaches and drops himself down into the seat beside him.

“Miya.”

“‘M not my brother.”

Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow at him, because that seems obvious. Going up against them again and again, the distinction between their personalities and their hair was enough for him to be able to tell them apart— and in any case, Atsumu would probably squawk at the idea of attending college. “I know. And?”

Osamu doesn’t even look up. He digs a notebook out from his bag with a neat pencil case that will no doubt only have a single half-filled pen by the end of the semester, and Kiyoomi notices him shift his things closer to himself unprompted when they verge a bit too closely into Kiyoomi’s space.

_Hm_.

“Seems weird that you’d call me the same thing you call ‘Tsumu. Just call me Osamu.”

It’s not often that Kiyoomi will feel comfortable enough to call someone by their first name. The only person he can think of outside of his family that he does so for is Wakatoshi, and they’ve known each other since they were in junior high. 

Regardless, Osamu has a point.

“Alright, Osamu. I didn’t know you were going to be attending university.” _Much less in Tokyo._

“Volleyball doesn’t interest me. Not like that, anyway. I’ve got my eye on somethin’ else.”

Osamu finally looks up, at least half-interested, with a small smile on his face.

“What about you, Kiyoomi-kun?”

_Oh. Oh no._

•••

Kiyoomi learns that their shared _Intro to Web Development_ course is an elective for Osamu, but a major requirement for himself. 

Kiyoomi learns that Osamu is majoring in business, and working at a restaurant on the side to gain some professional cooking experience.

But before all this, Kiyoomi learns that Osamu is terrible at staying on track.

He learns this and more later that week, when their professor piles on an absurd amount of reading on them within their first few classes and Osamu pleads with him to meet up to split the reading and exchange notes.

They spend hours in an empty study room at the library, with Kiyoomi crumpling empty sheets of paper to throw at Osamu’s head when his mind wanders and he finds him trying to balance a pen on his nose. The way Osamu frowns and chucks the paper back with a snort isn’t entirely attractive, but Kiyoomi thinks he doesn’t entirely mind it.

“I’m not giving you my notes if you don’t do your part of the reading,” he threatens. It’s empty, because Kiyoomi’s pretty sure he’d send them anyway if Osamu asks him more than once, but he also doesn’t think Osamu _would_.

“I know, I know, it’s just-” Osamu’s hand waves vaguely at the textbook in front of him, his brows pinching together. “It’s hard to focus on what I’m reading when I gotta read in silence, y’know? Like I can’t pay attention to what I’m seein’.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t know, but the solution comes easy enough. 

“Read out loud, then. I can tune you out so long as you aren’t too loud.”

Osamu stares at him for a second, like he doesn’t quite understand, but he straightens himself back up and Kiyoomi can hear him start to whisper the reading under his breath.

It’s comfortable. He would have thought that spending so much time in an enclosed space with someone he harbors feelings that are slightly-more-than-platonic for would be distracting. Agonizing, even, but it’s _comfortable_.

Maybe there is no crush here, maybe it’s just remnants and residue lingering from whatever he felt for Atsumu almost two years ago.

When they get through an hour of successful, uninterrupted reading, they call a short break. Osamu returns to the room with an armful of snacks that he drops onto the table, and holds out a bag of Calbee Norishio that he’d just had tucked under his arm. “Y’ wan’ it?” He asks, using his other hand and his teeth to rip open a bag of chocolate chip cookies.

Kiyoomi shakes his head when he thinks about how warm the room feels, how Osamu _tucked the bag under his arm_ , and takes out a small container from his own bag. “I brought something from home.” Neatly wrapped in plastic are two store-bought onigiri, and as he takes one in his hands, Kiyoomi can hear Osamu’s voice pipe up through the crunching of chips.

“Bet I could make you some way better than those. Fresh ‘n everything.”

Kiyoomi looks up from where he has an onigiri halfway to his mouth and chews, thinking on it. As if he’s even considering eating food made by someone he’s only just starting to really get to know. “You cook?”

And from there, the rest of their study session is derailed. Osamu goes on about how he wants to open an onigiri stand, maybe make it into a restaurant. He’ll be happy with just one, but he’d like to spread his cooking out everywhere he can reach. His eyes light up when he talks about how much he loves food and how it isn't just sustenance, but that you can _definitely_ taste when something is made with care.

When they finish eating, he wants to interrupt and remind Osamu of their reading, but this is the most engaged he’s ever seen him.

Kiyoomi wants to see more.

Osamu talks about his and Atsumu’s initial fight when he told him he wanted to have his own restaurant. Osamu talks about how Atsumu warmed up to it when Osamu would cook in the middle of the night and use him as a taste-tester. Osamu talks about how he kind of misses having a taste-tester around.

“I’m not eating any food you make with your hands, if that’s what you’re hinting at.”

He gets an eye roll in response to the first thing he’s said in ages, and it makes Kiyoomi’s nose twitch. “I didn’t say I wanna cook for _you_.”

“You did, earlier.”

This _actually_ seems to shake Osamu for a second and he reaches up to fiddle with his bangs, straightening out hairs that aren’t frayed. “ _Touché_ , Kiyoomi-kun. You got me there.”

Kiyoomi thinks that’s the end of it, that they’ll go right back into studying, except Osamu looks a bit closer at him.

The stare is familiar. It takes him back to when they’d stand on opposite sides of a net, and Osamu would spend a full eight seconds contemplating his serve, planning on where he’d send a hit.

Then, his lip quirks up slightly like he’s found his target.

“I’ll bring you around to it soon enough, just you wait.”

•••

‘Soon enough’ turns to months, evidently.

Saving a seat for each other in the lecture hall becomes a habit, and weekly readings turn to twice-weekly study sessions turn to weekend drinks at Kiyoomi and Kuroo’s apartment.

Weekend drinks turn to Osamu spending Saturday nights on his couch when he has one too many beers after a long shift as a line cook.

_“Holy shit, Sakkun!”_

Kiyoomi freezes from where he’s laying a blanket over Osamu’s sleeping form on the couch, glares at where Kuroo stands in the genkan with a single shoe off. 

“Shut up,” he hisses, letting go of the blanket and hurrying over to the kitchen sink. “Shut _up_.”

Of course, Kuroo doesn’t know the meaning of shutting up, because he follows Kiyoomi as soon as he’s removed his second shoe. “You’re so soft for him, Sakkun, you _liiiike_ him.”

“I don’t.”

“You tucked him in on our couch. Our couch where you don’t even let _Bokuto_ stay-”

“Osamu’s different.”

That was a mistake, because as Kiyoomi finishes washing his hands and glances over, he can see Kuroo leaning against the counter with his arms crossed.

“Oh, so he’s _different_. You’ve known Bokuto for like, two and a half years but you’ve only been hanging out with Myaa-Samu-”

_“Myaa-Samu?”_

“-for about two _months_? Make it make sense.”

It doesn’t make any sense. Kiyoomi’s not only let Osamu into the apartment, but let him fall asleep, and he doesn’t even think before he’s leaving a water bottle and pain meds on the coffee table. Kiyoomi’s not a mean person but he’s not so considerate, and he has to reconcile with himself as to why Osamu’s different. 

He returns to the kitchen and stands across from Kuroo’s knowing grin, trying to come up with an answer that will fool the both of them.

He can’t find one, because it isn’t there.

Osamu’s just different.

•••

The next morning finds Kiyoomi facing the couch, staring at a neatly folded blanket with the pillow resting on top and a handwritten note on a napkin staring back.

_‘Sorry about taking up your couch last night. I’ll take you out for coffee to make it up to you. Thanks for the water. :)’_

Kiyoomi slowly slides down to the floor with the napkin in hand, the tip of his index finger tracing the scribbled smiley face. Osamu could have just texted him. They exchanged numbers when they decided to become study partners.

His phone probably died and he didn’t want to wait until he got home for it to charge. It doesn’t mean anything.

‘ _I’ll take you out for coffee to make it up to you._ ’

He thinks back to the countless times he’s looked up and found Osamu distracted again, scribbling a smiley face onto the corner of Kiyoomi’s notes. He thinks back to how Osamu would look like he got caught with his hand in a cookie jar and slowly retract his pen, as if that would change anything. He thinks back to how he’d always inevitably catch Osamu doing it again an hour later.

He thinks back to all the times Osamu doodled on his notes to catch his attention.

‘ _:)_ ’

It might mean something.

•••

They go to a coffee shop after class on Monday. Osamu remembers his order from when they’d done homework together there a few weeks prior. Kiyoomi does not hold onto that thought.

Osamu brings Kiyoomi the same coffee to their class on Wednesday, and every Wednesday after, with a smiley drawn onto the side. Kiyoomi _does_ hold onto that thought.

•••

Soon enough, though, exams consume them. They can’t afford to get sidetracked during their study sessions anymore, and the projects pile on until they can’t find time to hang out between classes and work. Now when they see each other, they have bags under their eyes, Osamu’s often deeper than Kiyoomi’s.

~~Kiyoomi still thinks he looks just as handsome.~~

Kiyoomi vowed to himself to take things slow, to not jump to confessions like he has so many times in the past to his own demise. 

It’s difficult not to, when Osamu shows up with messy, wind-swept hair to their class because he’s just woken up and ran there— but he still has Kiyoomi’s coffee in his hand, because he always finds time.

Oh, Osamu makes it so difficult not to.

•••

When it’s all over, when they’re finished with their exams and their projects and Kiyoomi walks out of his final class of the semester, Osamu is waiting outside. 

“I’m taking you somewhere.”

“Hah?” Kiyoomi knows he’ll follow, but he still straightens himself up out of his slouch a bit and frowns. “Who says I’m not busy? Who says I want to go with you?” 

Osamu looks away and _ah, that’s unexpected_.

His hand reaches up to scratch the back of his head but he falters, and he fishes a small bottle of sanitizer from his pocket.

_Since when does he carry sanitizer around?_

The look on his face can’t be described as anything other than sheepish when he looks back up and he holds his hand out with his palm up, raising himself up into something that’s probably more determined than how he feels, from the looks of things. 

“Just come with me, alright?”

There’s no question about whether he _will_ or not, but-

Kiyoomi looks at his outstretched hand. 

They’ve never made skin contact. He can count on all his fingers the amount of times they’ve accidentally brushed against each other and let touches linger.

_Osamu’s different._

He meets him halfway and intertwines their fingers, and the relief is evident on Osamu’s face. A breath Kiyoomi didn’t realize either of them were holding for seconds, minutes, weeks, _months_ is released, and they squeeze each other lightly.

“Lead the way.”

Tension creeps back into Kiyoomi’s arms as they walk. They still haven’t explicitly said anything. There’s no guarantee that holding hands means anything to Osamu or that he realizes how much it means to Kiyoomi.

That’s the real concern, whether Osamu understands how much this means to him.

A calloused thumb running along the side of his hand pulls him out of his thoughts and suddenly they’re standing underneath a bare cherry tree behind the business building.

They’re away from prying eyes, their only company the snow drifting around as wind carries it around the campus where it rests on the branches above them.

“Listen, I, uh-” Osamu shifts around on his feet and shakes off some snowflakes that have landed on his hair. They remind Kiyoomi of the silver tips he had at the beginning of the semester. “I just, I, _fuck_. I’m usually not this nervous about anything, I swear.”

_There’s nothing to be nervous about_ , Kiyoomi wants to say. _It’s only me._

Kiyoomi knows he’s struck intimidation in people before, he isn’t clueless. Never in someone like Osamu, though, who he’s spent probably more time with this semester than his own roommate, who he’s grown _close with_. Or maybe they aren’t that close—

“I like you. A whole lot. Like, I’m really serious about how much I like you. It’s probably _why_ I’m nervous, actually.”

Or maybe it’s precisely because they’re so close.

Kiyoomi blinks and he can feel frost gathering on his lashes. His fingers are starting to run cold and he clasps Osamu’s hand tighter, worried that if he lets go that this will have been a dream. 

It isn’t, because Osamu squeezes back and it feels _firm._

“I know you said you’re not doing anything for the holidays, but I wanna take you home with me. As my date.”

It’s the middle of winter and Kiyoomi can hear wind howling between Tokyo skyscrapers in the distance. It reaches them and bites Osamu’s cheeks, turning them a rosy pink. Kiyoomi feels like he’s been on the other end of this before.

He reaches up to tuck his mask under his chin, teeth chattering at the sudden cold. Kiyoomi wonders if it were spring, if their lips would match the pink of the blossoms from the tree above them.

“Are you gonna give me an answer, or just let me freeze my ass off waitin’?”

Kiyoomi takes Osamu by his scarf and tugs until he stumbles forward and they’re in each other’s personal space, because he needs to make sure he hears this. He needs his words to land. “I feel the same. I’ve liked you for a long while now, Osamu.”

When Osamu leans in the last little bit and kisses him, he tastes like mint. Like he expected this. It’s short. They let go of their hands to grab each other by the waist like they’ve been silently aching for it and when Kiyoomi looks into Osamu’s eyes, he feels _seen_.

“Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

Kiyoomi smiles. Open, unashamed, unafraid. Osamu presses their foreheads together. 

“So, you gonna let me take you home and cook you a meal this time?”

His eyes are bright, hopeful, and Kiyoomi nods.

He knows it will be made with care.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Feel free to let me know your thoughts in the comments, or to scream in my DMs on [_twitter_](https://twitter.com/matchamozza). <333
> 
> (not that anyone asked, but the title is taken from the song, [_Like A Fool_](https://open.spotify.com/track/1E8Cztx0OIj4zm1IZh2XXj?si=-RXcalL-RrGq3ZUJHGyvgw).)
> 
> edit: I HEARD THERE'S AN OMIGIRI SERVER IN EXISTENCE SOMEONE PLEAAAAASE LET ME INNNNNNNNNNN I AM RATTLING THE BARS OF MY OMIGIRI CAGE


End file.
